


Tea Time

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26213686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: By HalethPippin takes Merry out for tea.
Relationships: Merry Brandybuck/Pippin Took
Kudos: 3
Collections: Least Expected





	Tea Time

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Disclaimer: Much as I wish otherwise, hobbits are not mine. *sobs*  
> Story Notes: Story written for a sketch of O's titled "Woods".

It is almost 2 o'clock in the afternoon when Pippin catches me entering the kitchen, just as he's leaving it. There's the spicy-sweet scent of baking in the warm air wafting out of the room behind him - or maybe from the covered basket he almost lets drop to the floor. I'm already hungry, and my stomach rumbles.

"Hullo, Merry," he says, and I find myself pushed against the doorframe and accepting a warm, peach-flavored kiss.

"Hullo, yourself." I nudge the basket with my foot. "Where are you going?"

He draws back and picks up the basket. "To find you." His grin is cheeky but the look in his green eyes kindles a returning fire somewhere deep inside me. Maybe he sees it, since he drops his gaze before speaking again. "I've brought tea," he says.

"Tea?" My eyebrows rise.

"Well, wine, then. And scones, and jam and butter. And two meat pies. And boiled eggs, and mushrooms." His nose wrinkles so appealingly when he smiles I'm tempted to kiss it. "And peach cobbler," he adds, and then I do.

I want to ask where we're going, but Pippin does love his surprises; so I just follow his nimble form in near silence as he bounds through Buckland, occasionally freezing like a startled deer before beckoning me close to see his latest unique-in-the-world discovery: usually a remarkably ugly bug, or a strangely-shaped yellow and orange shelf of mushrooms clinging low on a tree. Every once in a while, however, his eyes stumble on something beautiful, like a cluster of small flowers of remarkable hue. I pluck one and tuck it behind his ear, knowing that even his tight coppery curls will not be able to hold on to it long. And somehow, in all this, I've ended up carrying the basket.

Soon I'm able to guess where he's taking us, and I'm proven right as meadows with sunlit streams running through them towards the Brandywine give way to a forest of trees and great rocks, wide and smooth as giant pebbles from a riverbed. Pippin goes out of his way to make obstacles out of them, climbing and leaping off each one, sometimes with a shout; less often with all possible hobbit stealth, and I can't help but laugh a little, enjoying his joy at experiencing the world.

Legend has it these rocks were left here by giants, or maybe trolls; deposited during a colossal game of curling when the winters here were harsher than they are now. Old cousin Bilbo said that the elves live forever, and that _they_ say the earth has changed from what it once was. I wonder if the stones were not actually deposited by the earth itself, thrown out of the sea during some long-ago cataclysmic event; Pippin searches for a comfortable place to spread out our blanket and eat.

After much consideration he takes possession of the basket once again and rummages through it, finally pulling out a faded blanket. He flips it open deftly - as one with much experience with picnics - and carefully arranges it next to a sun-warmed rock in a small clearing near the edge of the forest, in sight of open fields. Last year's fallen leaves are still collected here in the lee of the stone, softening the ground to make a comfortable place to settle in for the afternoon.

I watch him remove each item from the basket and fussily select a spot for it on the thick woven fabric. Curious, how my impulsive young cousin will rein his energy in to deliberate so over the odd small task. I'm not sure anyone has noticed he does this but me. Strange that he would go to the trouble now, when there's no one to see it but an older cousin he's known all his life. Still I smile at being the object of such consideration. I feel my expression melt into something warmer when, satisfied at last, he smiles back up at me invitingly and gestures to a bare place on the blanket. He doesn't seem to mind my having allowed him to do all the work. I carefully step over our picnic and sit beside him.

We eat without speaking; the long walk has fuelled our appetites. Pippin did not, after all, pack quite enough food, and we find ourselves reaching for the last of the peach cobbler at the same moment. Our fingers touch, and he looks at me. His expression is unreadable. There is a question in his eyes, but I can't guess what it is. Again his gaze drops, and I'm astonished that this hobbit, Pippin Took, could be so uncharacteristically bashful as to not be able to meet my eyes twice in one day.

His hand releases my fingers, oh so slowly, then darts back to rest in his lap. "You take it," he blurts. "I had some before we left." Unusual behavior indeed, for a young hobbit - or an old one, for that matter - and suddenly I'm not hungry the same way anymore. I would rather have his hand back in mine; would rather taste him at that moment then another bite of that cobbler. I can't look away from him, and I think I may move towards him. Or perhaps he's moved towards me, but either way the distance between us closes fast.

Not a moment has passed and I have my wish; my arms are full of Pippin. He kisses me pleasantly breathless, then buries his face in my neck. I'm not really surprised; I knew all along why he took me out here, away from the Hall and more hobbit eyes than can easily be counted. He wants an education - and experience - in those matters one cannot well ask one's own parents or elders about, and for these past weeks I have been sharing what I know.

I don't know why he's chosen me for these explorations, though it seems obvious that as his cousin and closest friend I'm the logical person to teach him. I almost wish I hadn't agreed to show him the things about love he was so eager to know, because I know someday he will be sharing this knowledge with someone else. But I don't like to think about that, and quiet the voices in my mind as he nuzzles my neck again, then catches my breath and blends it with his own, still sweet and tasting of peaches.

I let him push me down slowly. He's acting surprisingly shy; the lads and lasses we know would never believe it of him. I expect he's going to ask to do something we haven't before. I'm excited by the thought, and a little apprehensive: he's quite adventurous, this little Took; there's no telling what he has in mind.

He covers my body with his own, and rests there for a moment. He is tense in my arms. I think I know what will unwind him, and press a kiss into his hair, then tilt his chin up so I can kiss his mouth too. He giggles into mine, nervously, and I nibble his lip. "What's troubling you, little Pip?" I ask, and his brow furrows indignantly.

"Little?" he spits softly, an inch from my face, and his fear, whatever it was, is forgotten in his irritation. Shortly he will get over his inhibitions, and start pressing me for whatever he's too shy to ask for now. He always does.

"I'm sorry," I murmur; he regards me seriously, eyes boring petulantly into mine. "You are my grown-up Pippin, now," I tell him, and he ducks to hide the faint glow of a smile, not so quickly that I don't see it anyway. I feel wet lips and then a tongue caressing my throat and groan out loud. There is no one to hear us out here, nothing but forest and fallow fields and the discarded toys of giants who maybe once played here but are certainly long dead now.

Pippin shifts his weight, and now I can feel him hard against me, and I rise as though to greet him.

"Merry," he says. We play this game often. If he were anyone else I might have grown tired of it by now.

I give the expected response. "Yes, Pippin?"

"Nothing. I just like to hear your name." The little imp knows I will be as foolishly flattered by this as I have been every time he's said it before, and I grin and move my hands down his back, touching feather-light here, and here, more firmly right in this spot, just above the small of his back, and he gasps.

He tastes my lips again, licking and probing with his quick tongue, and I surrender without a fight. The inside of my mouth is still exciting new territory for him, it seems, and he explores it for long minutes before allowing me to return the favor.

As I do his hands reach my chest, slipping buttons out of holes as quickly as his fingers can loose them. I realize my own hands already have his weskit and half his shirt undone, and soon he is shrugging them off and helping me out of mine. He lays down on me again, skin to skin. This small contact should not be unbearable but it is. I gasp his name, though the only sound that escapes my lips is a breathy sigh.

The fabric of my breeches slides against his as he moves above me, and it takes all of my attention not to grind against him furiously, right now while we're still half-clothed. I don't know how but this inexperienced lad has taken complete control. I am helpless against his advances, and he presses on to his full advantage.

Unexpectedly his weight lifts, leaving my skin bare and aching for him. Then sweet relief, his mouth is moving down me, he's left my lips behind as he caresses my chin, my jaw, my throat, and I cry out. His mouth firms and curls against me, and I know he's pleased by my reaction. Then he continues downward, soft kisses alternating with tiny bites that don't quite hurt enough for me to ask him to stop. He looks up at me with a mischievous grin, then bows his head and his mouth is hot and demanding on my nipple. I'm writhing involuntarily and I almost throw him off without wanting to, without wanting him to ever stop, but he does and sits up straddling me.

"You like that?" he asks, though he knows; his eyes are brilliant with pride.

"Oh, yes," I pant out between hitching breaths. He smiles again, and rises to his knees. His breeches are undone, I wonder if by my hand or his, and he slips them down and off as quick as may be. He is breathtaking, and I want to lie there underneath him and stare, but he won't be still for even a second; he's urging me to lift my hips and sliding my own breeches off.

He straddles me again, and the sensation of him over me, around me, _against_ me is painfully sweet. He grabs my shoulders and pulls me up into his arms, then reclines and drags me down onto him. Now I'm undone.

I push against him, and he responds. I push again, and again, and he meets me with every thrust, needing. The rhythm is familiar, but it's never felt quite like this with anyone else, and I'm nearly faint from the sensation when he slows to a halt, locking my hips into stillness between his knees, and leaves me wanting.

The expression on his face is at once familiar and exotically different from anything I've seen before. He wants something, very dearly, but not anything common like blackberry tarts or help playing a trick on the lasses. He wants something he's afraid to ask for, and his face wears a frustrated frown. Possibly mine does, too, as I try to wiggle my hips free to lower myself down on him again without success.

I give up my efforts and ask. "What is it you want, Pippin?" His mouth opens and closes several times in succession, without emitting a sound, then he wriggles underneath me, pushing on me and rearranging himself until I realize I'm positioned to enter him. I don't think he can want... not _that_.

But he confirms my guess. "I need to be closer to you, Merry," he informs me in a whisper so hoarse and low I have to crane my head down, almost touching his face, before I can hear it. He presses against me slightly, and the breath I've been holding whooshes out of me in shock. "I've heard... Merry, I've heard lads talking. About what they can do... with each other." His ragged speech doesn't conceal the pleading tone.

"Oh, Pippin..." I need to tell him something, anything, but words to discourage him from this course of action fail to rise to my lips, and I stare at him helplessly.

"It is possible," he insists uncertainly. "Isn't it?" His voice drops again.

I stammer out an affirmative in my surprise that he could even know. I don't think he's ready. "It will hurt," I tell him, "at least at first. I don't think we should, Pippin."

His face sets. "Yes. I do. I want to, Merry. I want you... I want you..." his voice quavers with the effort of voicing a desire I never thought he'd have, "...inside me?" He is hesitant in the face of my reluctance. But I've never refused him anything, and I'm in no state to start now.

"This will be easier if you turn over."

"No," he states immediately, emphatically. "Easier, you say? So not impossible... the other way."

"I don't want to hurt you." I'm pleading, because it's true that I don't; I never want to hurt him.

"I don't care. I want to hold you," he says, and wraps his arms around me, and smiles ingratiatingly. " _Please,_ " he whispers, and wraps his legs around me for good measure.

"Yes," I give the only answer possible. "Yes. But wait, wait just a moment." I slide off him, making slow work of it as I kiss my way down his face and neck and shoulder to his arm, eventually pressing my open mouth to his palm before reaching to the edge of the blanket where the forgotten food has been pushed aside.

"What are you- oh." He seems startled by the reality of my selecting what was left of the butter from the remains of our tea. Such practical considerations have escaped him, not surprisingly. I nearly change my mind right then, but he sets his face. "Tell me what I have to do," he states firmly, and I want him so badly now that I can't turn back.

"Nothing, dear one," I sigh into his ear, then turn my attentions to another part of his body. I think he is beautiful, more so than any hobbit I've seen, all pale skin and light brown freckles stretched over an active youth's muscular if slight frame. I reach red curls that almost exactly match the ones on his head, and ask with my hands for him to raise his hips and part his legs even wider. His willingness causes my heart, and more than that, to tighten in needy response.

When I touch him with one greased finger in preparation, his eyes squeeze shut and he makes a sound somewhere between a mewl and a squeal. It's delightfully unique, and as it's coming from him, I'm not surprised in the least. I stroke gently, tentatively into him with my finger, and he accepts it easily. I am surprised at this, that he trusts me so completely, and it makes me desire him even more. I start kissing his stomach and trail my mouth up his chest, pausing whenever he utters one of his little high sounds of pleasure, until I'm positioned over him again.

"Are you certain?" I have to make sure of this one last time. I couldn't bear it if I hurt him, or took advantage if there was the slightest risk he would change his mind. He only nods, eyes locked with mine, and smiles as he pushes up against me without warning; my hips thrust back without any conscious effort.

I'm halfway in him before I know it, before he expects it.

This close to the forest floor I should smell mulch and mildew, decay and growing things, but all I'm aware of is Pippin; his scent overpowering all else in my mind. Desire has colored everything hazy, sights and sounds alike, and I almost don't hear his cry.

"Ohh, wait! Wait there, Merry, _please!_ " His breathless moan turns to a sob on the last word, and I freeze.

"Does it hurt? Pippin..." I bite my lip to keep myself still. My mind, my heart, want to take all possible care with this precious being underneath me, but my body, well - it has other ideas. "Have I hurt you?"

" _NO_ , no. Not hurt... oh, just - please." I wish he would open his eyes; then he does, and I fall into them. I'm not sure how long I dwell in his gaze, or if we exchange promises there, though it feels like it. He's started rocking towards me again, and I can no longer restrain my movements, but he doesn't ask me to stop again.

Now my thrusts grow harder, more rapid, and he's rising to meet me, pushing just as hard and his sharp intake of breath between each push mingles with my own gasps. I think I hear him tell me he loves me. Then I think I imagined it, an unspoken wish given voice where only I can hear. After a moment of time that would seem like eternity, but for being so fleeting, he closes his eyes and turns away from me, his mouth gaping wordlessly, and I find I can't look at him, not now, and my own eyes slide shut of their own accord.

A second later and I feel a tremble around me and under me. My fingers tighten involuntarily on his arm, as though by that alone I can hold him to this earth. Instead he shudders and glazes my belly in warm slickness, gasping my name in ragged bursts.

After, he looks at me again. His eyes are wide, and for a moment I think he's frightened. Then he wraps his legs around my hips again, pushing his heels into the small of my back. I have to kiss him, and he tastes hotter - not as sweet as before - when he frantically invades my mouth, then breaks off abruptly.

"Merry, oh, Merry," and he thrusts up again, though I know by the look on his face it takes some effort not to cry out as he does it. "For me, love, I'm waiting," another thrust, and I'm sure this time; I join him in this dance for as long as it lasts - but it's not long before a shiver tracks down my spine which ends with my filling him with heat as great as that he gave to me.

"I meant it," he says, after an immeasurable silent stillness with my weight full upon him. I feel hot and heavy, and I don't need to ask what he means. I do anyway, then I slip softly from his body as he whispers, "I love you, Merry," and then, "why are you crying?"

He waits then, perfectly still, for an answer: words I never thought to be allowed to say to him. My mind is swirling with possibilities, and I can't pick one out to give voice to until he abruptly pushes me up, hands on my chest, sliding in the sweat. "I'm sorry, sorry," he breathes, and his face is damp from more than just sweat.

I try to grab his hands with one of mine, and he takes advantage of the movement to roll me half off him before I can pin his arms. Once again I'm trying to hold him to the earth and he's trying to float away from me.

"Pippin, Pippin, please listen," I plead, and just as suddenly as they began his movements are stilled and he lies passively beneath me, cheeks still wet. I kiss him, slow and certain, hoping he understands me. "Pippin," I say. "I love you, oh, how I do love you." And that is all he needs to hear. He frees his arms, and I don't resist. His hands reach around me, brushing at the hair clinging damply to the back of my neck, and he pulls me down. Then he's kissing me, hard and soft, fast and slow, and just as sweetly as he ever has.

"Oi, that was grand, Merry," he says at last, and I have to agree.


End file.
